at last, as it always will do if we wait long enough for it, and the long cornet rose from his sleepless bed, looked at himself in the glass, and was quite shocked to see how pale he was looking-how illhow ghastly-but this was of course the wine, the bad night he had passed, any thing rather than the duel. But we live in a misjudging world, and as Cornet Drawlincourt prided himself considerably on the knowledge he possessed thereof, it was very natural that he should have done his best to neutralize the palour which overspread his long face, and which might, by some censorious persons, be attributed to the absence of a quality he possessed in an extraordinary degree. So he opened his dressingcase, and, having washed and shaved himself, applied the tip of his middle finger to a small rouge pot, kept by him for theatrical purposes; having done this, he applied his finger to his cheeks, and in a few minutes looked quite blooming.

Then he began to make a most elaborate toilet, because he thought it would look like collectedness; and it was well for him that no one was looking on, for he made two or three blunders, which spoke of any thing rather than the quality aspired to-he drew his right boot on to his left foot, began cleaning his teeth with a boot hook, and one or two other little things of this sort, not exactly denoting a collected state of mind. However he was dressed in time, and when Lieutenant Peterkin, according to agreement, tapped at the cornet's door, about sun

rise, he found that gentleman drawing on a lemoncoloured glove, and taking a final glance at his boots.

"Ah! Drawlincourt, all ready I see," observed Lieutenant Peterkin as he shut the bed-room door after him; "that's the ticket; it is indeed-upon my soul that's the ticket. You have not been waiting for me long, I hope?"

"Oh! dear no," replied the cornet, aiming at a nonchalant effect by catching a blue-bottle fly"oh dear no-I'm only just ready-the fact is, I-I-I overslept myself a little. I think, Peterkin, I was a trifle cut last night-just a trifle-I look rather pale, don't I—a little seedy or so?"

Lieutenant Peterkin looked at his friend approvingly, said he didn't look at all pale, and passed sundry panegyrics on his valour, all of which Cornet Drawlincourt pocketed with feelings of the utmost satisfaction at his own excessive ingenuity.

But he would not let himself appear to be flattered by them, and received them as matters of course. "Pooh-pooh! Peterkin," he said, poking his friend facetiously in the ribs, "it's all very well for boys, you know, like that Pultuney, to feel any thing out of the common on such occasions as this; but for old stagers, like you and me-Pooh! Pooh! It's too ridiculous," and the very idea of the thing set him off into a laugh, which resembled a badly managed fit of hysterics.

There certainly was something "too ridiculous" in the idea of the long cornet's being an old stager, and it is no wonder at all that he should have laughed

at it; for as Mr. Drawlincourt had never seen any thing like a duel, except at Drury-lane, in the play of the Rivals, there was something so exquisitely humorous in this piece of self-portraiture, that it might have tickled the fancy of an ascetic.

"True-true," returned Lieutenant Peterkin, looking at his watch, "upon my soul, it is quite true-old stagers like us-exactly-leave fear to the boys-of course; that Pultuney's nothing of a shot -a regular green-eh? Drawlincourt."

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Why-why-why-I don't exactly know what to say about that," returned the cornet, who had a lively recollection in his mind that Peregrine Pultuney had once knocked over a Mother Carey's chicken with a rifle ball, and had besides winged more albatrosses and Cape hens, and broken more bottles than all the rest of the passengers in the Hastings put together; "I don't exactly know what to say about that, Peterkin-mais n'importe-the fellow's a passable shot-but I flatter myself, I'm a better."

It was certainly the height of flattery on the cornet's part, and the most palpable to the person flattered, inasmuch as that Mr. Drawlincourt had once lost five pounds in an ineffectual attempt to break as many bottles in thirty as Peregrine did in ten shots. However, there is nothing equal to the "gross and palpable," whilst you're about it, and if a man chooses to flatter himself, it is hard if he may not do it effectually.

"I've no doubt of it," observed the lieutenant,

"and my pistols are real darlings-upon my soul they are real darlings. They'll shoot a man of their own accord—I'll take my oath-without any aim. You've only to pull the trigger and shut your eyes if you like."

The long cornet thought it was very possible that he might shut his eyes without liking it; but he did not express himself to that effect. It is probable too, that had his colour been real, it would have forsaken him at that moment, for it is close work, and sounds like reality when your second begins to talk about his pistols being real darlings. However, the long cornet was acting vigorously, so he got up a sort of a laugh, and asked Lieutenant Peterkin if he had been engaged in affairs of this nature very often.

"Oh! yes-very," returned the lieutenant"and the last time it was such a go-upon my soul it was such a go!"

Now this last was the only time as well-but the word "last!" is a very convenient one, for without the speaker telling an untruth, by using it dexterously, he may imply the pre existence of an indefinite number of events similar to the one of which he has been speaking, and every body must know how very convenient that is.

"How was that?" asked Mr. Drawlincourt, who didn't care a straw how it was, but who was anxious to delay, as long as possible, the fingering of the "real darlings," out of a merciful desire, no

doubt, to give his enemy more time to prepare himself for a journey to the next world. "How

was that, Peterkin-ch?"

The lieutenant looked again at his watch, found that he had just three minutes to spare, which he could not occupy more advantageously, than in the narration of a personal anecdote, redounding so very much to his own honour as the history of his last duel; and then began informing Mr. Drawlincourt how he had, one night, got "horridly cut" at the mess; how his companions had carried him to bed, and, not being much better than himself, had amused themselves with the pleasant diversion of shaving off his Lieutenant Peterkin's-whiskers and eye-brows, and polishing his cheeks with Day and Martin's blacking; how he, Lieutenant Peterkin, upon discovering this in the morning, had waxed alarmingly wrath, and placed a challenge on the mess library table, to one and all of the perpetrators of the insulting act; how one and all of the perpetrators answered the challenge, and how they drew lots which should fight, with sundry other little incidents relating to the combat, which served to show off the military character in a peculiarly favourable point of view.

"And now," cried Lieutenant Peterkin, slapping his companion very humorously on the small of the back, "now to business. We shall just be in time: the real darlings are in the buggy-and we'll breakfast here when we come back."